shouting hallelujah
Pippin regards the camera while playing with his sheepdog, Bonnie, and lamb, Agnes.*
*We are trying to raise a liturgical egghead, yes.
Pip and I managed to get out to my old job yesterday to visit the former coworkers who endured Morning Sick Katherine, Overheating Pregnant Grouch Katherine, and Large and Creaky Katherine, but haven’t yet gotten to meet the fruit of those trials. And one of the questions people asked was, “How is Bonnie handling the baby?”
The better question is “How is Katherine handling Bonnie?”
Mostly, not very well. Bonnie’s fine with the baby, or at least, she hasn’t tried to eat him. But because it’s frozen, dark winter in Massachusetts and I can’t take her out while I’ve got the baby, Bonnie’s not getting enough exercise, and going completely bonkers. Because she’s not getting enough exercise, she’s constantly under foot, slinky, and emotionally needy. Basically, she’s a wreck, and I feel bad about it, and then my anger at her being a wreck wrecks her more.
The other day Bonnie pawed J, trying to get him to play, and scratched Pippin’s forehead by mistake. She is a lucky girl that this mama bear was not in the room. Pip didn’t even care, especially, but it was all I could not to toss her out in the snow to start a new life.
I have this ability to stay calm with Pip, or at least to not direct my anger at him. I’m surprised, frankly, as I am not the calmest, least grouchy person the world. But it’s just so clear when he’s screeching or sobbing or barfing or all three — he’s a baby, and he can’t help it, and he’s so wretched and scared. So my anger at my powerlessness and confusion and tiredness turns toward Bonnie, the non-baby, poor girl.
I love the idea of Pip growing up with a dog of his own, of him someday telling stories to his friends about his first dog, a little black and white beastie who shed like crazy. I’ve always scorned those craigslisters who put their dogs up for adoption just because they’re busier with a baby. And I love Bonnie, who’s been such a big, fun part of our lives since I fell in love with her at a PetsMart adoption event years ago.
But it’s hard. I’m mostly waiting for spring now, when it’s warmer and the daylight lasts longer and we can all go out on walks together. In the meantime, I’ll wait it out, try to limit my dark mutterings on if I find one more Bonnie hair on Pip’s pacifier and dream of the day when, for Baby #2, Bonnie goes on a nice long vacation to John’s grandparents.
Pippin, Bonnie and I went leaf peeping in the backyard today.
Bonnie finds the accommodations for the ride home from camping acceptable.
We’re a little out of practice entertaining. The only remedy is equal hosting and couching.
I should probably not post this because it will diminish my last ounce of housekeeping credibility, but yesterday J sent it to me at work, and it’s too funny/disgusting not to share.
This is Bonnie, stationed beside the giant tuft of fur J pulled off her with the Furminator. Apparently it had been awhile since he’d gotten around to it, or else taking her for runs and the warm temps have caused her shedding to go turbo.
beca:
O HAY, BONNIE.
My house is messy but my dog is cute.
(This blog is now just where I reblog my sister’s blog. Blog blog blog.)
J & Bonnie converse in Doglish.
Oh, Lenten evenings without television.
I told you.
Well, at least she got a treat out of the deal.
Bonnie is trying to seduce me into a morning spent in bed with a book, tea, and her on this rainy February day, when my allergies (?) are beginning to make themselves known.
Wicked temptress.
